


Until Morale Improves

by LizaPod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Cutting, Knives, Licking, M/M, and this could have been a lot worse, bad boy, but it's pretty gnarly, god okay you know what, good beast, hardcore consensual violence, hardcore romance, lack of subtlety, sodomy, sucking, the author is a sick fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaPod/pseuds/LizaPod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hold still,” Seb orders, and he’s aware that his smile is more like a snarl. Jim doesn’t call him a beast for nothing. “Or this will be messy.”</p><p>Jim pulls his hair viciously. The last shred of his submissive charade is gone. “Don’t get blood on the sofa.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Morale Improves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/gifts).



> Beatings will continue.

The only time it is acceptable for Sebastian Augustus Horace “Basher” Moran to point a loaded gun at James “Jim” Moriarty is never. However, _never_ has proved to be negotiable in the context of Moriarty’s perverse, ongoing, and spontaneous sex games. Holding knives to his throat and being held at knifepoint himself in the same bloody sexual context hadn’t been part of his initial job description, either.

It is, as one says, a _perk_.

This particular perk, the _holding a knife to Jim Moriarty’s skinny throat_ perk, also manifests itself in the form of Jim biting, punching, cutting, nicking, bruising, beating, and otherwise semi-permanently and permanently injuring or marking him, and vise-versa. The one non-negotiable in all of their blood-spattered short-of-breath countertop-sofa-bedsheet-backseat-destroying _encounters_ is that Sebastian Augustus Horace “Basher” Moran is not allowed to leave scars on Moriarty. 

Moriarty has left his marks all over Sebastian, under his clothes and across his face- his personal favorite, the scarred bite marks across his cheek are only starting to fade after six months- and the marks of others in places he can’t see. His tailor knows not to ask, now, after the first _Sherlock_ incident. 

Now, tonight, when he’s already splattered with the blood of Moriarty’s former clients and his dick is half way to hard, Moriarty is holding out a utility knife like he’s bestowing a crown jewel. 

“You’ve been such a good _beast_ , Bunny,” Moriarty drawls, lisping and flitting his hands like he’s still playing at being Jim from IT. “I thought I’d give you a little _reward_.”

Sebastian doesn’t hesitate before taking the knife. Leaving an open blade in Moriarty’s hands, even when he’s smiling, _especially_ when he’s smiling, is asking for trouble and bloodstains.

“I prefer _beast_ to _Bunny_ ,” he mutters, even though he knows it’s pointless. Both are better than _Flopsy_ , which Moriarty used for two weeks just to watch him fume.

“I don’t care.” Moriarty waves off his complaint while loosening his own tie. “I’ve decided you have earned a _treat_ , and if you keep complaining I might decide to punish you instead.”

‘Might’ means ‘will’ and they both know it; Sebastian’s bloody Armani jacket hits the floor and his hand wraps around Moriarty’s throat. 

“No scars,” Moriarty gurgles through his grin, his mad child-clown grin, and the strangling grip Sebastian has on his neck. 

“Yessir.” 

Sebastian digs his fingers into Moriarty’s neck. He’ll bruise. Bruises are allowed. The back of Moriarty’s calves hit the sofa, then Moriarty’s ass.  
“You have a knife,” Moriarty reminds him. 

“Take off your clothes, _sweetie_ ,” Sebastian says. He hasn’t forgotten the utility knife in his left hand. Guns are better, an extension of his arm, but bullets do tend to leave nasty holes and nastier scars. Even Jim Moriarty doesn’t like that much pain, anyways. The knife will be fine. 

Moriarty undresses carefully and with a dazed smile that doesn’t fool Sebastian for a second. Other people might get blissful and stupid with a hand around the throat, it takes all kinds, but Jim is a snake that can’t be charmed. Sebastian’s not even always sure his orgasms aren’t lies, even when he’s got Jim’s come on his fingers. Besides, he knows the strength of his own grip and he’s not cutting off enough of Jim’s air. 

Jim’s nakedness is nothing special. His legs are skinny and his ass is flatter than the fens and his hideously expensive suits hide the beginnings of a paunch. Sebastian has had hotter fucks of both sexes. Sebastian doesn’t find him particularly attractive in any abstract sense. It’s the greed in his snaky, dead little eyes when he watches Sebastian test the edge of the knife against his thumbnail or wipe the blood of some poor dead fucker off his face that makes his dick stand at attention. Sebastian takes his hand off Moriarty’s throat and loosens his own tie, undoes the top button on his ruined shirt. He adjusts his dick in his pants. Jim’s nakedness is nothing special but sex with the little psycho is _insane_. 

“Nothing on the face,” Moriarty orders as Sebastian first presses the edge of the knife to Moriarty’s jaw. He hadn’t planned on cutting Jim’s face, he isn’t _stupid_ , but once he’s told not to do something it becomes so much more appealing. He resists the suicidal urge to make his mark in Jim’s sallow cheek and instead drags the flat of the blade down to his throat. 

“How far below the neck am I allowed, then?” Sebastian hates the negotiations. The benefit of whores and anonymous fucks is that there’s none of this tedious discussion about what he is and isn’t allowed to do; this may have more to do with the fact that he generally doesn’t go about carving his name on the random people he sticks his dick in than Moriarty’s ever-changing rules.

Jim giggles and swallows. The knife moves against his jugular. Sebastian adjusts his dick again; he’d killed two men in a similar situation not two hours earlier and his blood is still hot from that. These _discussions_ are cooling his temper and his libido and it’s irritating, when he’d really rather just be bleeding Jim like a stuck pig before fucking him. 

“Nothing that’ll show in a suit, poppet. You _know_ that.”

Sebastian kicks Jim’s feet apart on the floor so his legs spread, leaving his balls and cock vulnerable against the sofa. He steps back and studies the picture Jim makes, naked and pale and soft against the expensive black leather of the living room set. The knife taps against his thigh absently. Moriarty stares back at him blankly. The sweet submissive smile on his face doesn’t suit him. Jim doesn’t play sweet or submissive well at all. It seems to be the only failing in his repertoire of roles and personalities. Oh, he’d fooled other people well enough, the time Jim dragged him to some ridiculous posh sex club for rich fat _kinky_ bankers and MPs, but Sebastian could see the manic glee at fooling ordinary humans in every sinew of Jim’s groveling body. 

Seb flatters himself that he is slightly above ordinary mortals in seeing through _most_ of Moriarty’s lies.

The knife stills in his hand. He leans in, propping himself on one knee between Moriarty’s thighs and his free hand on the back of the sofa. Jim’s been playing at Jim from IT again. He reeks of overpriced cologne and a young woman’s perfume. He’ll smell like blood again soon enough. Sebastian rests the knife against Moriarty’s bony sternum and sinks his teeth into Jim’s lower lip. 

Jim’s hands, which had been flopped like dead fish on the sofa, close in fists around his dangling tie. Sebastian immediately regrets his stupidity in not _taking the blasted thing off_. 

“You’re wasting time, _poppet,_ ” Jim drools past Sebastian’s teeth. Sebastian is as pinned as Jim when manicured hands tighten the silk noose around his throat. “ _Do something_.

He questions his next move for a moment, but he’s always been a gambler at heart. He takes his teeth out of Moriarty’s lip and swats his hands away. Sebastian stands, opens his trousers, and pulls his dick out. 

“Bite and I’ll cut your throat,” he says, pulling Jim’s face towards his cock. A fistful of greasy hair serves as a decent enough handle to hold Moriarty’s head still while he fucks his mouth. He’s never going to tell Jim that he’s _shit_ at self-directed blowjobs, but he is, and so Seb prefers to just use his mouth as a fuckhole.

Sebastian holds the knife to Moriarty’s neck while he shoves his dick across his tongue and down his throat. His blood is coming back up to a slow boil, with the spit-wet slide of Jim’s lips around his cock and the scant movements of the knife in his hand when Jim swallows. Jim’s eyes are heating up, too, when Seb looks down at him. The threat of violence warms him up like a snake on a rock.

It’s only when Sebastian sees that Jim is toying with his own dick that he pulls his cock out of Jim’s mouth. The knife stays at his throat. 

“If you’re in a _rush_ you might tell me,” Sebastian drawls, scratching his balls.

“We have a meeting with a client at six,” Moriarty says, sprawling back against the seat. “Get on with it, then.” 

Sebastian sneers. The knife flicks from Moriarty’s throat to his chest. It takes hardly any pressure to open the skin over his sternum. A fat swell of blood wells up around the tip of the utility knife and trickles slowly down his chest; they both watch its path before Sebastian wipes it up with his finger. It’s not, as he had expected when he first started sticking his dick and assorted sharp implements in bits of Jim Moriarty, cold. It’s as hot as any other mortal man’s blood, and doesn’t taste any different when he licks it off his fingers. The only real difference between Moriarty with his blood spilling out his chest and another man or woman is that most normal human beings don’t take the bloody knife and lick it clean while sporting healthy erections.

It’s like adding gelignite to his already smoldering libido when Moriarty drags his fingers through his own blood and sucks them clean. He opens the wound further, then creaks to his knees between Moriarty’s feet. It’s an awkward angle, but he has his mouth fastened to the seeping wound at the center of Moriarty’s chest. Blood and stray chest hair mix on his tongue. He pulls his tie loose again as he licks the severed edges of skin and Moriarty’s bony fingers clutch at his hair. 

Jim’s death-grip on his hair is a convenient handle for him to pull Sebastian’s head up and towards his own. Sebastian finds his mouth temporarily, lewdly occupied by Jim’s tongue and the taste of blood gets licked out. He fingers the edges of the wound until Moriarty hisses and releases his mouth; he’s got better things to do than passively let Jim tonguefuck him to death. He spreads his fingers over the inside of Jim’s thigh, squeezing hard and releasing. The milky white flesh goes red under his fingertips. It gives him _ideas_.

“Hold still,” Seb orders, and he’s aware that his smile is more like a snarl. Jim doesn’t call him a beast for nothing. “Or this will be messy.”

Jim pulls his hair viciously. The last shred of his submissive charade is gone. “Don’t get blood on the sofa.”

“Of course not, _poppet_.” Sebastian squeezes again. He shifts his grip on the knife. It’s sharp as fuck but unwieldy for fine work. He’ll have to be extra careful. 

He prepares for Jim’s inevitable jerk away from the pain of having Sebastian’s initials carved into his thigh, but it never comes. The only reaction is a low, hissing moan that almost sounds like he’s enjoying it. Blood seeps over his fingers as he finishes the flourish on the _M_. Not bad work, for the tools and canvas he has to work with. 

“ _Blood,_ Sebastian,” Moriarty hisses, and he actually sounds aroused. Sebastian drags his tongue over his mark, cleaning it like a dog. He may not be getting blood on the sofa but he _is_ rubbing his dick against the cushion. He sinks his teeth into the flesh around the mark. Jim’s hips jerk up. Seb sucks. Blood rushes into his mouth. He knows he’s got it smeared across his face. Moriarty’s fingers curl around the back of his skull and he makes obscene noises like Sebastian is sucking his dick rather than sucking his blood. 

The flow slows to a trickle under his tongue before Sebastian bites his way to Jim’s other thigh. He eyes the smeared, spit-wet, bloody bruised wound on the first, and finds its parallel spot on his new target; he goes backwards this time and bites first. The initials aren’t quite as neat when he cuts them, not because Jim is moving but because his concentration has gone more to his balls and his patience is gone almost entirely. The knife gets discarded- to the floor, out of Jim’s easy reach, he’s hard as fuck but he’s not fucking stupid- and Jim’s blood finds its way into his mouth again. Jim’s other thigh presses against the side of his head, bleeding into his hair, holding his face against the newest wound.

Now that he’s not holding the knife, Seb is free to dig his fingers into Jim’s leg with one hand and jerk off with the other. He redraws the letters with his tongue. The salt and metal tang is practically a drug. Well, the blood and the way Jim’s pressing his face in so close he can barely breathe. Jim’s thighs are going to be a masterpiece in bruises and scabs when he’s done. 

“Meeting, Seb. We’re on a _schedule,_ ” he sing-songs above Sebastian, scratching him behind the ears like he’s a gore-soaked dog. Sebastian pinches his balls and jerks his head back against the restraining hand. Whatever Jim wants him to do- probably sodomy- it’s not going to happen with Jim suffocating him. Jim pulls his hand out of Sebastian’s hair and fishhooks him instead. “And you’ve gotten all _dirty_.”

Sebastian refrains from pointing out the fact that he was already covered in blood when he got home, and Moriarty’s blood is only icing on the cake. He refrains also from mentioning how much like a crime scene Jim looks. 

“D’you want me to fuck you or what?” Seb asks when Jim’s fingers have ceased digging into the flesh of his cheek and started drawing lines through the mess on his face instead. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

This is an order he has no problems obeying; the tie and stained-beyond-redemption shirt hit the deck behind him. The gore has soaked through to his undershirt in places, and dried, and he pulls at patches that are sticking to his skin. 

“Leave it.” Moriarty presses one neatly pedicured foot to his shoulder and pushes at him insistently. The gesture, so condescending, makes Sebastian’s mark bleed again. He laps up the coagulated blood and the fresh, with his fingers tight around Jim’s thighs. “Do you want to fuck me or not, you stupid beast?” 

Sebastian snarls around his mouthful of blood. His hands on Moriarty’s legs make it easy to pull him forward on the sofa, to spit the blood and saliva in a precise gob onto his ass. He spits into his hand. He doesn’t linger over jerking off, just slicks his cock and surges to Moriarty’s level. Cold greedy hands get in the way, _helping_ , lining them up and stroking and pushing his trousers further down. 

The angle is shit. Jim’s bony knees are digging into his chest. His asshole is almost _too_ tight around Seb’s dick. The hot, heavy panting breaths against his shoulder and the whorishly eager jerks of Jim’s hips urge him on. Jim’s fingernails, filed to talons, gouge precise lines down his back across scarred letters. 

The angle is really shit, though. Sebastian grunts and shifts, and grabs Jim by the throat to shove him down on his back. He loses ground in the struggle of sorting out limbs and clothes and his knee slipping through the sofa cushions. Jim’s bloody thighs are staining the skin at his waist where his shirt’s rucked up and his pants are shoved down. His lying mouth is busy on Sebastian’s jaw, his cheek, his mouth, licking his own blood off his skin, the _sick fuck_.  
Now, though, he is free to fuck Jim Moriarty into a bloody, shaking mess of a man. Or a man-shaped _thing_ , at least. Sebastian is not the only beast in this beast with two backs. 

There is no delicacy or tenderness or affection in the way he ruts into Jim. There is nothing beautiful about the shrill, animal noises Jim makes against his skin or his own lower grunts. Seb’s hand around his throat finally becomes more inconvenient than useful or hot and he grabs the arm of the sofa for leverage instead; Jim takes advantage of not being held down to bite his ear hard enough that he might be bleeding. Since there’s already blood on his ear he can’t tell, it just hurts, and he digs his fingers into the cut in Jim’s thigh in retaliation. 

Sebastian sinks his teeth into Jim’s throat as soon as it’s in range. He lets go of Jim’s thigh and pulls his head back with bloody fingers curled through his over-styled hair. The nails that are already sunk deep in the meat of his back claw deeper and down. He knows he’s bleeding there, from the new gouges and from freshly ripped open scabs. Seb snarls and bites again, a fresh stretch of snake-smooth skin. Jim’s hiss of pain and the lewd shove of his hips are about as erotic as any practiced whore’s swallow.

Jim extracts the claws of one hand from Sebastian’s back. He imagines he can almost hear the sucking of flesh around the nails over their bestial grunting and the squeak of sweat on leather. Sebastian feels fingers worming through the non-existent space between their chests, to finger the seeping wound that’s sticking his shirt to Jim’s skin, and to shove down. 

Bony, bloody fingers tug harshly at his pubic hair. Sebastian bites his way to Jim’s mouth. Bony, bloody fingers wrap around Jim’s dick and start jerking mercilessly. Knuckles shove against his belly. Teeth scrape across his lip and he hitches Jim’s legs higher and fucks like they’re racing a ticking time bomb. He sinks his teeth deep into the curve of Jim’s bony shoulder and worries the flesh there like a tiger. 

His orgasm comes almost as a surprise. His dick goes from cocked to firing faster than he’ll ever admit. He is briefly, viscerally glad that his teeth are in Jim’s shoulder and not his throat. He’d probably rip his throat out and fuck the hole. As it is, he feels in the low, animal part of his brain and his guts that he is somehow _marking his territory_.

Sebastian laps at the faintly bleeding bite mark in Jim’s shoulder as Jim wanks viciously. His dick has to be chafing. Blood makes for a shit lube- he knows from experience- and it wasn’t like he had that much blood on his hands to begin with. Actual blood, not metaphorical or whatever blood. There’s enough of that to slick up a whole battalion of sodomites.

Jim comes with a wail that always surprises him, it’s so uncharacteristically _young_. His come dampens Seb’s already-stained undershirt and his breath stutters, just for a moment, like he’s trying to get his body under control. 

There is no afterglow. He knows not to expect any sort of post-coital downtime with Jim; Moriarty’s mind shuts off for the mere split seconds of his orgasm and then starts immediately back up, if it even shuts off then. Sebastian finds himself pushed off and squirmed out from under before his dick’s even gone soft. Moriarty, battered and bloodstained, a slow dribble of Sebastian’s come sliding down the inside of his thigh and mingling with his blood, bounces on the balls of his feet like he hasn’t been cut open and reamed and gnawed. 

“Above the collar, Sebastian, you’ll _pay_ for that,” he sing-songs, prodding the deep red blotches on his throat with his stained fingers. “Don’t. Wash.” 

Sebastian rolls onto his back and scratches his balls. He listens to Moriarty’s heavy footsteps mince into the bathroom. When the water starts and he’s pretty sure Jim won’t be coming back out, he shoves himself upright and looks around for the pack of cigarettes he’d forgotten on his departure this morning. The half-empty box is on the table next to the sofa; he lights up and switches on the telly.

Three quarters of a Top Gear rerun later, he’s bothered to get his dick back in his trousers and wipe most of the blood off his face and not much else. His second fag is dangling out the corner of his mouth when Moriarty’s re-suited figure plants itself between him and the tv. 

“On your knees, poppet,” Moriarty says as he straightens his tie and rolls up his sleeves. It’s the one with the tiny skulls on it that he thinks is _so witty._ There’s a gun in the small of his back. Seb can tell; he holds himself straighter when he carries weapons there. He takes the cigarette out of Sebastian’s mouth while he leverages himself down onto his knees in front of him and takes one drag. Sebastian scratches himself idly as he waits for whatever Moriarty wants to do him now. Jim stubs the cigarette out on the inside of his own forearm with just the faintest flinch.

“You can be such a _good_ boy when you put your boring little mind to it,” Jim drawls, flicking the extinguished smoke at his face. Seb doesn’t react. Jim’s hand reaches down like the skeletal hand of god and pushes his fringe off his forehead, pushes it back into place in the Hitler Youth style that was mandated for him at the beginning of his employment. Sebastian had obediently gelled and pomaded it into submission before leaving; cold-blooded murder and hot-blooded sado-masochism had destroyed his careful work.

Jim’s fingers pet his cheek, then fondle his ear like he’s a dog. Sebastian doesn’t lean into it, though the same base instinct that makes him want to mark his territory tells him to. 

“But you just can’t keep more than one thought in your funny head when you’re gagging for it, can you?” The hand leaves Sebastian’s face and moments later the butt of a pistol slams into the side of his head. He catches himself on his hands before he hits the ground, his skull ringing and his vision blurred. “Be a good boy at the meeting, poppet, or I’ll have to really _drill_ the lesson into you.” 

Sebastian rubs the side of his head; a fresh trickle of blood from the split skin of his temple dampens his fingers. 

“Fix your hair and get dressed. I don’t want to be late.” Jim tucks the gun back in the waistband of his pants and strokes Sebastian’s head again. “Good beast.”

**Author's Note:**

> apiphile is to blame for everything.


End file.
